


Day 7 – Memento / (post-1945)

by goldtracing



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Gen, Grudges, Historical Hetalia, Post-World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29776845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldtracing/pseuds/goldtracing
Summary: Denmark regarded to dug-up landmines that were all neatly stacked in front of him. In a crude, sordid way, they were grotesque mementos of what occurred.
Relationships: Denmark & Germany (Hetalia)
Kudos: 2
Collections: Historical Hetalia Week (February 2021)





	Day 7 – Memento / (post-1945)

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, I’m a wee bit late. I wanted to present this for Day 6, however family activities interfered. So, I’ve decided to post it for Day 7. Also, I had pieced of this in my WIPS, and therefore I just went ahead, translated it and added.

In lieu of the most devastating war in human history, the once proud nation had been crushed, the confidence in that smile liquidated, the mad glint of fascism eradicated. Something that the fiend had deserved in Denmark’s eyes.

“What else do you want to do to my people?”, Ludwig had rasped, desperate in his question to Matthias, his else collected nature distorted by hopelessness. It had filled Denmark with sadistic glee to see his enemy so vulnerable.

He had played god for so long and he would be a slave all the longer.

The physical wounds the war had inflicted were deep and hurt, but it was the mental injuries that smarted the worst and hauled forth the worst sides of human nature. So, as one of the wronged, the Nordic hadn’t shown any mercy in his next words. Because wasn’t he entitled to revenge, however abstract it was?

“My dear Ludwig, somebody has to clean up the legacy you have left, and who would be better suited than your own children”, he had smugly declared.

Germany had demeaned them, forced them to their knees and humiliated them. He had shot, enslaved, tortured, subjugated and starved them – therefore he deserved nothing less than the unbridled ire of the whole world.

Which was why he couldn’t fully comprehend why Alfred had decided to spare the disgusting sinner, even decided to reconstruct him. “America is still young and foolish and so woefully idealistic”, he had told himself. “One day he shall learn that a tumour can’t be converted – it has to be burned out by a cleansing fire.”

Nevertheless, beneath all his anger, a small fraction of him that was so unchangeable human and sympathetic understood the new-found king, even concurred with his choices when the superpower vaguely explained part of his reasoning. That they should retake the exact path that he lead to the war to begin with. However, it was just a spark of compassion – one that was almost extinguished by years of bloody conflict, like every time order was replaced by chaos and altruism yielded to greed.

However, such memories were irrelevant in face of the present. The war was over and to remain trapped in the past and recollections of it, as well of the self-conflict it brought, was ill-advised. It was the most logical option and as a millennia-old nation it should have been an easy task. Despite having participated in countless wars and having learned to bury loathing – for allies could become enemies overnight and vice versa, leaving little room for permanent grudges – but this time, it was different.

Matthias breathed in deeply, smelling the sea and the sand, holding the air in his lungs for a few moment and then releasing it. The stiff breeze tugged at his tresses, the chill welcome and grounding in reality. He reminded himself that he was free again, free to remould himself to the changing demands of the modern world and choose the path he wished to take. 

Opening his eyes again, staring down at the beach from his perch. It was a windy day, the dully shining through a grey cover of clouds, mirroring the turbulent waves with its froth-crown waves. Drowsy, in a way, like the village to his back.

That couldn’t be said of the boys down on the beach and Denmark made his way down to them, halting at the black flag that had been plunged into the loose ground. Behind that makeshift line, the member of the Hitler Youth, were lying on their stomachs. Their fear was palpable as they poked in the sand, searching for landmines. They were thousands of them buried in this little stretch of land, the legacy of Germany that desperately needed to be removed.

Some of his men had argued that it was inhumane to put children in harms way like this, where one wrong move could be their demise. Other’s argued that they were Germans, and therefore this was only fair.

Either way, this had to be done.

Grimacing, he glanced at the black crude things that had been stacked up. All defused, ready to be stripped for metal and explosives. Yet Denmark considered keeping one, as a crude memento of this wretched century. Something grotesque that would remind him of the atrocities committed, even when the world shall have forgotten about it, every living memory eradicated and the people that had witnessed the battles and bombings and crimes all deceased.

It would fit well in a museum, buildings were artifacts were housed, so many of them souvenirs he, the personification, had gathered on the journey that was called life. Such a mine would be an appropriately grisly warning from a long-gone era in a century or two.


End file.
